Shin's forehead pressed with a little thud onto the wooden desk. The fountain pen rolled—clunk, clunk, clunk. The wall clock ticked, tick-tock, tick-tock.
In the quiet, three words slipped between his lips. "I… still… haven't written it."
Orange light crept through the blind slats and spread thick over the blank notebook. The smell of honey. The smell of old paper.
When Shin lifted his chin, his glasses had tipped down over one ear. He picked up the fountain pen—scratch, scratch. Twice.
He wrote, and wrote, and wrote again. The fountain pen grew faster. Scratchscratchscratch!
The coffee cup trembled. SPLAT— brown grapes splattered onto the paper. Shin chuckled to himself, hee-hee.
He stamped a red heart on every envelope. Thump. Thump. Thump. The envelopes lay in a neat row on the floor.
The next morning. Sunlight sparkled on the cobblestone path to church. Dew still clung in the gaps between the stones.
Small hands eagerly grabbed the envelopes. A boy sniffled, and a girl's mouth stretched wide in a surprised "Ooh!" The two children hoo-hoo-hoo'd, slapping up dust with their little shoes, flap-flap-flap.
The letters caught the breeze and floated up, up, up toward the sky. Over the cobblestones. Into the sky.
